Imbroglio
by Not Enough Answers
Summary: The saying goes that your past will eventually come back to haunt you. Seeing as how he was supposed to be dead, this statement had taken on a rather literal meaning. Sherlock/OC
1. 1

**This is my first Sherlock fanfiction, so please be kind! It's told from the point of view of an old university acquaintance of his. Although this first chapter takes place in present day, the following ten chapters or so will be a retelling of their university days. Then it'll skip back to present time, which is post-Reichenbach, and continue on from there. Although there will be eventual romance, the fic is concentrated for the most part on the mysteries.**

**If you don't understand everything in this chapter, that's intentional; it'll be explained in due course! **

**DISCLAIMER:**** I don't own anything aside from a smattering of OCs and the plot. (I posted this on my other account first but later moved it here!)**

* * *

The humid Florida air weighed in oppressively from all sides as I hurried down the street towards the apartment complex, my energy miraculously renewed after a long day at work. I'd stayed up late reading the previous night and had nearly missed an article deadline, something that would have likely cost me my job if my boss had found out about it. Being a freelance journalist was definitely not the most glamorous of occupations, a realization that would have been horrifying to my teenage self.

My mind, as usual, wandered back to the novel I'd been reading well into the early hours of the morning, an old, dusty crime novel that I'd found stuffed into the back shelves of the local bookstore. I'd been so certain I knew who the culprit was, and had thought myself so clever, that it had been a nasty shock when, of course, I'd been completely wrong. Now I was suffering from what I'd used to call "post-book depression"—an overdramatic term, yes, but it was so difficult to find good books these days—while reminding myself exactly why I hated mystery and detective stories. Or, conversely, I hated my reaction when I discovered I wasn't as intelligent as I liked to think I was, as an old acquaintance of mine once phrased it.

Since I'd nearly run to the office that morning, papers and briefcase flying everywhere, I'd been sweating since I'd woken up, and the unnaturally warm day, even for this coastal city, had me about ready to melt into a puddle by the time I reached the front doors of my building. Whose bloody brilliant idea was it, anyway, to use concrete sidewalks here? The rock was burning right through my shoes.

But as I riffled through my handbag for my keycard, I began to feel the faint stirrings of panic—it was no longer there. I'd had it when I'd left the office, hadn't I? Surely I hadn't forgotten to bring it with me when I left this morning…

"Damn it," I groaned after dumping the contents of both my purse and my briefcase onto the steps. I _had _lost it. It wasn't that I was locked out of my building—I would just wait until someone else arrived—it was that both my card _and _my key were missing as well. Even if I was able to get inside the building, I wouldn't be able to get inside my own apartment. And I would have to pay at least two hundred dollars to get a new card and key, money I couldn't afford to spend.

As I knelt down and began to gather up my other, more insignificant items, and cursing my bad luck, my mobile phone buzzed loudly, signaling that I had a text. This was so strange I momentarily forgot about my problems and frowned at it—who would be texting me? Was it Armstrong, my boss, asking me to write another article? Fumbling with my bags, I pulled my phone out from my pocket, seeing that it was a blocked number.

_Look behind you._

I squinted at the screen, briefly curious but then just writing it off as a wrong number. Still, I had to admit it was slightly creepy; who texted their friend something like that?

Managing to shrug it off after another moment, I turned back to the task at hand, unceremoniously shoving my wallet back into my bag before sitting down on a nearby bench, staring idly at the palm trees that lined the front walk. I did enjoy living in West Palm Beach, especially since I'd been born here, but it didn't feel like _home _in the same way that London or Boston had. I'd only lived here until I was four years old, anyway. Perhaps I'd been foolish in thinking that moving here would be some sort of homecoming, but then again I hadn't been thinking clearly during that decision anyway.

Stretching out my legs in front of me, I was about to lean back and close my eyes when my phone vibrated another time. Expecting it to be an apology for the previous text, I was sorely disappointed when I read it:

_The proper entrance to a building is usually the door._

"I would love to walk through the door," I shouted at the screen, ignoring the startled look thrown at me by an elderly woman on the street walking her dog, "Except for the fact that I can't bloody _find_ my card!"

God, I'd really had a long day. Maybe I was beginning to hallucinate. Reaching into my pocket, I pulled out the packet of cigarettes and lighter I kept with me in case of emergencies and lit up, closing my eyes and inhaling deeply. It was rare I smoked anymore—I'd gone through a rough patch several years ago—but times like this, I felt, warranted it. I could already feel my thoughts clearing, and I felt a flicker of embarrassment for my outburst.

My phone buzzed again, and I impatiently wafted the cloud of smoke away from the screen to better read the message:

_Standing outside all night isn't going to help you._

Before I could think of an adequate response, I received a fourth message:

_For a journalist, you are remarkably obtuse._

This was the final straw: I immediately tried to call or at least text them back, but was only met with a NUMBER BLOCKED screen. Growling in frustration, I dropped the cigarette and stamped it into the ground, glaring across the street although it was just as likely my stalker was watching me from _inside _the apartment complex. If there _was _an assassin after me, as my overactive imagination was currently wondering, why were they bothering to text me snarky messages instead of just putting a bullet through my brain? Surely the latter option was much easier.

Quickly glancing up and down to the road to make sure that no one was around, I called out, "Listen, you have five seconds to show yourself or I'm calling the police."

Almost immediately, my phone vibrated in response.

_I repeat my first order: look behind you._

Was this some sort of prank? It certainly wasn't a wrong number; whoever was texting me knew exactly where I was and what I was doing. Gritting my teeth, I stared down at the words, debating what my plan of action should be. But no sooner had I thought of going back to the office when I received yet another message from my mystery texter:

_Since we both know you aren't going to call the police, I suggest you come inside. It's been very boring waiting for you to arrive._

I tilted my head back, pinching the bridge of my nose and counting to ten. As much as I despised admitting it to myself, it was true. This was the most interesting thing that had happened to me in years, and I wasn't about to call the police when I was convinced that the situation, while not exactly _safe, _wasn't dangerous either. If I was going to be killed, it would have happened by now—besides, there was something about the messages, the underlying tone of them, that reminded me of someone I had known a long time ago…but no. It couldn't be him; that was impossible. The last time I'd seen him, he'd been…well. I'd just believed I would never hear from him again, but still, there was only one person I could think of who would be deliberately that insulting. Of course, that still didn't answer some very crucial questions, but at least now I was a step closer to getting them answered.

I pushed myself to my feet after another moment, waiting for another text, but none came. Trying to stifle my disappointment, which moments earlier had been something akin to fear, I finally glanced behind me, half-expecting to see nothing of importance. But I let out a small groan when my eyes fell on a moving truck parked around the side of the building, and a pathway in which workmen were carrying furniture into an emergency exit. I felt a flicker of annoyance at myself for not having paid careful attention to my surroundings, but quickly shrugged it off as I slung my belongings over my shoulder and hurried toward the door, waiting until the men's backs were turned before darting inside and finding myself in a stairwell. I groaned; I lived on the eighteenth floor, but beggars couldn't be choosers.

* * *

Ten minutes later, I finally emerged out onto my floor, completely out of breath and panting like a dog. I'd never before realized just how heavy my briefcase and handbag were, and a newfound appreciation for the movers. That was it: I was going to buy a lanyard so I wouldn't have to do that again.

I made my way down the hallway cautiously, trying to remember the basics of a self-defence class I'd once taken and pleased to discover that I could use my briefcase as a weapon if I really needed to. Reaching for my phone again, I flicked to the recording function and turned it on, hating that I was so intrigued by this scenario when by all accounts I should be running away screaming in the opposite direction. But not having mental stimulation for years was damaging as well; I craved a rush of adrenaline just as much as anyone else. It was difficult to experience that when the most exciting event that happened during the day was getting stuck in the elevator at work.

I stopped in front of my door, suddenly grateful that there was nobody else about, before pulling out a hairpin from my bun and bending it in half, hoping I would be able to use it as a lockpick. I glanced automatically down at my phone as I stuffed the end of the pin into the lock, but the screen was dark. Trying to stifle a strange sense of disappointment, I muttered, "Who _are _you?" as I jiggled the doorknob, not surprised in the least when the phone lit up as an answer.

_You know who I am._

Yes, I did know who it was; had known it ever since I'd received the second text. I had always had a sort of sixth sense when it came to him, although I'd dismissed it years ago as the product of an adolescent infatuation. But I hadn't seen him for fifteen years, and I was _definitely _over my infatuation. So how did I know it was him?

After another minute of struggling, I felt the flimsy lock give way—the building managers had evidently been more confident about the front entrance than the actual apartment doors—and it swung open, taking me with it. I regained my balance as quickly as I could before sticking the hairpin back in my hair and kicking the door shut behind me.

Somehow, I knew I wasn't alone. There was a peculiar charged electricity in the air that I had only ever associated with one person, and my heart ridiculously began to pound faster as I stepped into the living room, knowing exactly who I would see.

He was sitting in the armchair, his long legs stretched in front of him and dressed in a dark suit. He twirled my key around one finger, and I saw my card on the coffee table in front of him. There were two cups of tea placed next to it: one in front of him, the other in front of the couch.

He didn't look up as I stood open-mouthed in the doorway. "Sit down, Cordelia," was his only greeting, in a voice that was even deeper than the one I had remembered, but strained somehow—with worry? What could possibly be bothering him? His face, however, was impassive.

"Sherlock," I managed to say after another moment, unceremoniously dumping my bags on the floor before walking over to the couch and collapsing onto it before my legs gave way. "Sherlock Holmes."

He finally met my gaze then, and I was frozen in place by the force of his icy blue stare, feeling the heat pool to my cheeks as it had whenever he looked at me. Even now, after all this time, he still had the power to make me feel like a silly schoolgirl again.

He had been lanky as a teenager, but uncoordinated somehow, as if he'd had a massive growth spurt and then didn't know how to carry himself properly, like a newborn giraffe. But he had obviously grown into himself now, giving him a unique air of power and confidence. His dark hair was still plastered to his head, even curlier from the humidity in the air, and his colouring was white as a sheet. There was no doubt that he was the same Sherlock Holmes I had once briefly known, but time had changed him in subtle ways. I wondered how different I appeared to him.

The moments slowly tucked by, each of us silently judging the other. My hands were curled into fists on my knees, unable to tear my gaze from his. Sherlock was finally the one to break the trance, nodding once at the cup resting in front of me. "Milk, two sugars," he announced matter-of-factly, as if we sat down and had tea every day.

If it had been anyone else, I would have been surprised and flattered that he still knew exactly how I liked my tea, over a decade after we had last seen each other. But this was Sherlock. He remembered everything.

I raised the cup to my lips, hyperaware of his eyes on me and unable to stop my hand from trembling. The scalding liquid burned my tongue, but I forced myself to swallow it and slowly lowered the cup back to the plate. "First things first," I said, marveling at how I was acting so composed, as if this was a regular occurrence. "Why do you have my keys? I took them with me when I left this morning—"

"I needed them," Sherlock replied dismissively. "I had to make duplicates. You dropped your bag by the front of your office door when you walked in—it was ridiculously easy for me to walk right inside and take them while you were hunched over your computer."

I rubbed my eyes feverishly; this couldn't be happening. Or at least, I sincerely hoped it wasn't. "So you _stole _them from me and just stayed here all day while I was at work? Jesus…why do you need duplicates?" A horrible suspicion was beginning to dawn on me, but I didn't dare to voice it out loud.

Sherlock leaned forward, placing his hands flat on his knees and mimicking my own posture. His tone was almost earnest as he answered, "I need to stay here for a while. It's crucial, and you are the only person I can trust on this continent."

"What makes you think I'll help you with anything?" I spluttered, putting my tea down and nearly jumping out of my chair. "You stole my key, broke into my apartment, and have been nothing but rude to me! Not to mention the fact that I haven't heard from you in fifteen years. You're just a…a university acquaintance."

Sherlock was unruffled, staring coolly at me. "Don't be stupid," he said disparagingly. "It doesn't suit you. Even an idiot could realize that is a lie." He was right: in the midst of my picture frames, there was one of the two of us sitting by the river; remnants of a happier time. My stepbrother had taken it during a spring afternoon. My legs were crossed and I was grinning happily at the camera, my hair blown about by the wind, while Sherlock sat a foot away from me, a grim expression on his face and his eyes boring into the lens. The contrast between our two demeanors was ridiculously comical, and it brought a smile to my face whenever I saw it.

"So why did you come back here after all this time?" I asked. "For me?"

"Of course not," Sherlock snapped, ever impatient. "Don't flatter yourself. It was out of necessity, nothing more."

"Then why?"

He gave me a cold, clear look. "You don't read the papers, do you?" he asked, before immediately answering his own question. "No, you don't. Again, poor behaviour for a journalist."

"Sherlock, just spit it out." I gave him my best glare, and he slowly leaned back in his chair, never tearing his gaze from mine.

"In case you didn't notice the moving van out front, there is an assassin moving into the flat directly above you. I have reason to believe that he is planning to murder you. Now, about my suitability as a temporary flatmate—"

"An assassin?" I nearly shrieked, leaping to my feet and nearly upsetting the coffee table. "What the hell are you on about?"

_"Sit,"_ Sherlock instructed again, and I fell back onto the couch, collapsing into the cushions. "It is not an immediate threat. Since he is taking the time and effort to move in, he is likely going to try to make friends with you at first, possibly more, before luring you to a deserted place."

"And how—how _exactly_ do you know all this?"

"I would not have to explain anything if _you read the papers."_ Sherlock sounded as if he was clenching his jaw in frustration. "To be as concise as possible, I am the world's first and only consulting detective, and as you might imagine the profession has some dangerous liabilities. My life story was sold to the papers, one of my enemies read it and decided to put assassins on my—several people, you being one of them."

"So this—this is all your fault!" I pointed an accusing finger at him.

"Of course not. I'm not the one who sold my own life story. You can thank my dear brother for that." His voice dripped with sarcasm.

"Mycroft?" I asked in a strangled tone, and if I had been holding my tea I would have certainly dropped it. "Why would he do that?" Sherlock's older brother had never liked me—or at least I didn't think he ever had. It was impossible to tell. But it sounded like my suspicions had been confirmed.

"No idea," Sherlock said, although he was lying and making no effort to hide it; he obviously had other things on his mind. Seeing my frustration, he added, "You'll find out eventually if I am to stay here."

"I haven't even agreed to anything!" I shouted angrily.

"Oh, but you will," he said. "Now, this is getting quite tedious—I would prefer this conversation to be over with sooner rather than later. Sitting in a cramped airplane seat for nine hours has worn my patience even thinner than it usually is."

"Sherlock, you can't just barge into my flat and demand to stay here! You say that I'm the only person you can trust on this continent, but we haven't even seen each other in fifteen years. Do you still have some lingering attachment to me that I don't know about? Surely 'an old friend' isn't enough to satisfy your criteria."

"No," he agreed. "I don't place any value on sentiment."

"You don't?" I echoed. "Then why did you say that I was the only person I could trust?"

His eyebrows drew together; he certainly hadn't expected me to put up such a fight. But why not? And I didn't understand his utter lack of chronology, as if he had expected things to pick up right where they had left off. He wasn't the one who had written a dozen letters after I'd moved away! No, something else was amiss here.

"You're in danger, Cordelia, and unless you wish to stay that way, I need to be around at all times. I've been tracking Moran down for months. He's my last target. I'm not planning on staying in Florida for more than a week. Please," he finally said grudgingly, as if he was a toddler and his parents were forcing him to apologize to a stranger for taking their toy.

I was weakening, and he knew it. "But I only have one bedroom," I said lamely.

He shrugged. "The couch is perfectly good enough. I rarely sleep anyway."

"God…" was all I could say, dropping my head into my hands and digging my nails into my scalp. I could still feel his eyes on me, picking apart my every gesture. "You're going to be the death of me, Holmes." Mercifully, he didn't answer, probably knowing that I was going to speak again, and sure enough I raised my head after a moment. "Well, go ahead," I told him, and was pleased to see a hint of confusion in his face. "I can tell you've been wanting to do it since I set foot in here. Deduce me. The question is, do you still possess that little…talent?"

His reply was swifter than I would have thought possible, but then again he had been analyzing me even without my knowledge, piecing together a million little details nobody else would even notice. "I think the question is where to _begin? _You have made this too easy. Not much of a challenge at all. You miss England, as you oscillate back and forth between American and British ways of speaking. You have lived here for nearly two decades, so it cannot be written off as mere habit anymore. You have not left America in the past fifteen years; your passport expired a decade ago. Very poor preparation for your job description—not that it looks like you'll be getting work anyway. You do not care to cultivate an image as evidenced by your threadbare clothes. You barely scrape by at work, and often rush deadlines judging by the ink stains on your fingers and chewed nails. That is surely sloppiness on your part since you have recently moved here. The plaster used to line the ceiling and floors is one that was not used in Florida until two years ago. You are also quite pale, which suggests that you used to live in a colder state, and the winter clothes in your closet suggest sentiment, though it's not likely you will be returning there anytime soon, as you moved away by choice. Judging by the photos you have on your table, your fiancé was a soldier and was killed shortly before you moved here—which would be approximately three years ago, and is the reason why you no longer read the papers. There is still a faint line of a ring on your finger—too thin to be a wedding band. You miscarried after his death, which would account for your protective hand on your stomach, something that you would not be doing had it been an abortion. You took up smoking after his death but eventually gave it up, only doing so when you are anxious, since your teeth and skin are not stained. Judging by the state of the flat, you are not forming any meaningful relationships and often sit around feeling sorry for yourself. I would suggest getting a cat, as you do not wish to put in the effort and time required for a dog. The knitted sweaters mean that you are still in regular contact with your mother, but as she is sending your _sweaters_ she is not aware that you have moved here. You long for the past, since you did return here, the city where you were born, although you appear to have no particular emotional attachment to it. Likely a sign of regression—"

My mind was completely blank in awe, and the only thing I could possibly think of to say after all that was, "You went through my _closet?"_ I spluttered.

"What else was I supposed to do?" Sherlock asked, waving a hand dismissively. "I was bored."

"Well, you, that was…amazing," I admitted, and a flicker of satisfaction crossed his face briefly, unable to hide his pleased expression at showing off. "Actually, I'd say that was better than I expected. You're right—I haven't seen Mum very often," –the only topic that I was willing to discuss at the moment. "She still lives in England and still sends her presents to my old address. She divorced Callum seven years ago."

"I know," he said carelessly. "You aren't in touch with him or Sebastian."

I rolled my eyes. "Why are we even having this conversation, then? You know more about me than I do."

Sherlock's lips twitched, although the movement was so fast I couldn't have been sure that it wasn't just my imagination. "Sebastian didn't mention you when I last spoke to him. Ergo, you and he were estranged for some reason, the most likely one being a divorce between your parents."

"Yes," I said softly, although I was certain he didn't need the confirmation. "But there is one more thing I'm surprised you haven't mentioned. Did you look closely at the pictures?" Without waiting for an answer, I reached over to pick up the foremost frame and handed it to him.

Sherlock evidently hadn't given the photo more than a cursory glance, because his jaw flexed as he recognized the man in the picture, before handing it back to me, his eyes slightly wider than normal. "There's always something," he muttered to himself.

"He was shot in the chest," I said, feeling the all-too-familiar pricking of tears at the back of my eyes but forcing myself to carry on. "He'd only been in Afghanistan for a couple of months. The doctors did all they could for him, but…" I trailed off, knowing that neither Sherlock nor I would appreciate it if I really began to cry. "Well. I don't suppose you would have bothered to check up on me. As you said, you're not one for sentiment." I gave him a twisted smile. "The last time I saw you, you were—"

"Don't take it personally," Sherlock interrupted, his hands clenching into fists. I wondered if he was still shaken by the picture. "I rarely spoke to the others either."

"I sent you letters!" I cried, hating how pitiful I sounded. "I never got a reply back!"

This declaration seemed to confuse him; he frowned at me intently. "I never received them—ah, yes, of course. _Mycroft."_ He nearly growled out his brother's name, and I guessed that they had never repaired their feud, Sherlock instead letting his bitterness fester until it was very nearly hatred. "He must have intercepted the letters."

My first instinct was to ask him _why _Mycroft had wanted to prevent a correspondence between us, and then to ask why he'd included my name in Sherlock's life story. But, instead of asking the logical question, I blurted out, "And did you honestly think that I didn't care about you anymore? Did you really believe that I wanted nothing to do with you? We were once close—"

"Yes," Sherlock said calmly. "Fifteen years ago. It took no stretch of the imagination to realize that you would not want to carry on a correspondence with an _addict._"

Neither of us had uttered the word out loud, and I sucked in a sharp breath. "Now that you know that's not true, consider our friendship _repaired_," I said, ignoring his derisive smirk. "So, if I'm going to allow you to stay here, I need to know one thing. Are you…are you…" I'd had the question on the tip of my tongue for the entire conversation, but I faltered at the last second, silently cursing myself. I'd put on a brave front, and it was crumbling down around me like a house of cards.

"Just say it, Cordelia." His tone was sharp, but there was grim resignation in his voice. He was going to make me struggle; he wanted me to be uncomfortable. I guessed this was payback for me forcing him to admit he trusted me earlier. As brilliant as he was, Sherlock could still be petty.

I wasn't sure why it was so difficult for me to say one simple word, but I was sure at least a full sixty seconds had passed before I managed to whisper, "…Clean?"

"Yes." His face was perfectly sincere as he uttered the word. "I do occasionally smoke, but you cannot prevent that without being hypocritical."

Relief surged through me, and I slumped back onto the couch, resisting the urge to smile. I supposed that I should have realized it before, though—he looked healthy, or rather, as healthy as one _could_ be when they were as pale and skinny as he was, and he wasn't visibly shaking or sweating despite the boiling temperature. "I suppose you get your kicks another way, then," I mused, feeling comfortable enough to prop my feet up on the table, a gesture which was only met by a disapproving sigh from Sherlock. "Consulting detective…trust you to get an occupation that's the only one of its kind in the world." Wanting to escape his x-ray stare for a moment, I glanced down at my empty teacup and stood up, leaning over to scoop it up. "Can I take yours?" I asked, although his was only half-finished.

"Yes. Thank you," he said after another moment, and I paused as I walked out of the room, frowning at him.

I was a bit put off by his politeness, as wonderful as it was: the Sherlock I had first encountered during my university years would have had to be prodded to either apologize or thank anyone—well, most anyone—and now here he was, doing it of its own accord. Something, or someone, had to have changed him irrevocably. I sent a sneaky glance toward his left hand, and saw no ring on it. So he wasn't married, then, and the skin was smooth and untouched, suggesting that he had never worn one there, or at least not for a very long time. I couldn't tell whether I was indifferent or pleased about this fact.

After I'd placed the cups in the sink, I took a deep breath, refusing to think too much about our conversation, before drying my hands on a towel and heading back to the living room. He had risen from his chair and was standing at the balcony window, gazing outside at the setting sun and view of the ocean that could just be seen over the other buildings.

"Pretty far from London, isn't it?" I asked.

He didn't answer-just continued to stare out the window, fingers steepled, lost in thought. He was simultaneously the same and different from the Sherlock I'd known a decade and a half before.

Now this evening _definitely _called for another cigarette.

* * *

**Please let me know what you thought of it! Again, any vagueness as to their past is intentional on my part.**


	2. 2

**I just want to apologize for the long wait between chapters! Life (well, university..;)) has been busy.**

* * *

_**Fifteen Years Earlier**_

"Well, this is a bit disappointing, isn't it?" my stepbrother said to no one in particular, clapping his hands together and surveying the dorm room. "I expected something a bit bigger for such a…prestigious university."

"What, like Buckingham Palace?" retorted my mum, crossing her arms and shaking her head. "Seb, it's a right lot bigger than the room _I _lived in when I was attending uni."

"Yeah, but it's half the size of my bedroom at home and my roommate hasn't even arrived yet," Sebastian sulked, throwing himself down onto the bed dramatically. Secretly, I was a bit jealous of him: the dorm certainly wasn't small by _my _standards, and there was something terribly romantic about living away from home with no one but yourself to rely on. Or perhaps that was just the writer in me talking. At any rate, I felt truly sorry for whoever his (un)lucky roommate turned out to be.

"How long d'you think you're going to be acting like a drama queen, son?" my stepfather Callum asked, checking his large gold watch. "I have a meeting at two and it'll take us at least an hour and a half to get back to London in this weather." I glanced across the room, where rain hammered relentlessly against the windows, creating a pounding rhythm against the glass.

Seb threw a hand over his eyes and sighed loudly, but I could see him grinning. "Fine," he said. "Go if you must."

"That's the spirit," Mum encouraged, ruffling his hair. "You'll love Cambridge. It's the perfect place for—"

"Smarmy gits like him?" I suggested. Callum laughed uproariously, Mum frowned, and Sebastian discreetly gave me the middle finger. But I was victorious: I had always wanted an opportunity to tease him about his self-important, pretentious manner, and here was one staring me right in the face.

But luckily for me, he wasn't afforded the time to retort, since footsteps could be heard out in the corridor. Seb's room was at the very end of the hallway, so there could be no other reason for people to be out there. His roommate must have arrived at last.

"Quick, you'd better tell him you require that shelf for all your bottles of hairspray," I teased, pointing at the empty bookcase against the far wall. Sebastian shot me a glare and half-heartedly tossed his shoe at me; I sidestepped it easily. After my mother's recent remarriage, not only had I gained a stepfather, I'd gained a stepbrother my age. I got along with Seb well enough, but we were never quite on the same wavelength.

There was a sharp rap on the door. Since I was standing the closest to it, I took it upon myself to pull it open, and stared up into the face of a man in his mid-twenties, with brown hair, light grey eyes, and a stern expression. "Yes?" I asked in confusion; was Seb's roommate a graduate student?

"Good afternoon," the man greeted me in a polite, polished manner, but he was staring over my head at the others, who looked just as bewildered as I did. "I presume you are Sebastian Wilkes' family?"

Before any of us could answer, a voice from behind him asked, "It's obvious, isn't it?" For the first time, I noticed that there was someone else in the room, which I later found surprising since, for all intents and purposes, he was slightly taller than his companion. I guessed at once that _this _must be Seb's roommate, since he was much closer to our age than the first man was. Startlingly bright, narrowed blue eyes surveyed the room with light exasperation. His dark hair was wildly curled, his cheekbones high. He was very pale and astonishingly skinny, handsome in an unusual way. If I'd had to guess, I would have said that he was sulking. I didn't think I'd ever seen a less stereotypical teenager in my life.

The older man opened his mouth to say something, but the boy stepped forward, his arms crossed in what I would later realize was a defensive posture. His eyes swept over me once, and seemingly finding nothing of importance, fixed themselves on the rest of the room. "Biological father, stepmother and stepsister. He isn't close with his biological mother, or else she would be here. He resembles his father in the eyes and hair, but the other two not at all. Now, this could technically be due to genetic differences, but the body language between them is too distant and withdrawn. Additionally, they are wearing old clothes, pointing to a significant wealth gap between them. Mr Wilkes has two faint lines on his finger, which proves that his was a hasty divorce and remarriage. It is a recent remarriage since his new wife and her daughter are not yet comfortable enough to wear expensive brands."

"Well, fuck me," Sebastian finally said, and a slow smile spread across his face. "That was fucking _amazing_." It was a mark of how shocked Mum was that she didn't call him out on his language. Callum's mouth was hanging open, and I was sure mine was too.

The older man looked somewhat startled, as if that wasn't a normal reaction, and the boy himself raised his eyebrows. I wondered if he didn't look a bit satisfied. "I should have warned you about his behaviour in advance," the older man said. "I am Mycroft Holmes, and this is my brother, Sherlock."

"I daresay they will get along very well," Callum said in a strangled voice. But nobody paid him any attention; they were all staring at Sherlock, who didn't seem at all apologetic.

"I don't see the point of putting on false charm, _Mycroft,_" he said through gritted teeth, staring directly at Sebastian. "You'll last longer than the others, but I should have my own room within a week."

Mum and Callum now exchanged a look that plainly said he would have his own room within a _day_, but Sebastian interrupted, "I think it'll be a bit longer than that. You seem a real laugh; I was worried I'd have a boring roommate."

"No, you're just pleased that he'll be able to do your work for you," I spoke up, more for Mycroft's benefit than Sherlock's, since the elder brother appeared to have taken on a fatherly air, though it was clear Sherlock didn't appreciate this. I vaguely wondered what it said about the Holmes parents since _they _hadn't bothered to show up. Some part of me wanted Mycroft to know that Seb, as charming as he could seem, had a sense of humour that likely would not mesh well—or at all—with his roommate's.

"Don't be silly, Lia. I got into Cambridge, so I'm certainly capable of doing the work myself," Sebastian said with a pointed smile. The thinly veiled insult, I was sure, didn't go over anyone's head, and I quickly averted my gaze.

"Sherlock," Sebastian continued after he'd relished in the victory of getting the upper hand, finally pushing himself up off the bed and standing up. I'd always thought him tall, but he didn't even reach the other boy's eye level. "Funny name, isn't it?" He smirked pompously and held his hand out. Sherlock didn't take it, even though Mycroft prodded him forward.

"Well," Mum said, flustered, "I think we'd better be off now. My husband has an urgent meeting in London later today—"

"Right, that," Seb said, rolling his eyes. "Yeah, that's my dad, Callum, my stepmum, Tracy, and my stepsister Cordelia. They're perfectly harmless, so you needn't worry about them."

Mum leaned over me and said in a carrying whisper, "What an _interesting _roommate he has! Perhaps you can use him as an inspiration for one of your characters in your book!" I stiffened and glared at her; my dreams of becoming a writer someday were private, and I didn't like the patronizing looks I got whenever it was announced.

"Oh, please," Seb scoffed. "Lia publishing a novel? I'll become the next CEO of Goldman Sachs before that happens. She'll be stuck as a journalist or working at some low-paying publishing company, mark my words."

Heat rushed to my face and I stared down at my feet, unable to think up a comeback. I could feel Sherlock's gaze on me as if it was some electric force, but I didn't meet his eyes.

"And what an interesting character that will be, I'm sure," Mycroft announced, echoing Mum's earlier words. I sensed it was more to deflect the comment that was surely coming from Sherlock than any particular curiosity he had in my writing career, or lack thereof as Sebastian seemed to think.

"So that's that," Seb proclaimed, clapping a hand on Callum's shoulder. "I'll let you get to your meeting, Dad. Wouldn't want to keep you away from—" he smirked at Mum, "—All the fit birds in their business attire."

"Are you sure?" Callum asked, now making no effort to feign civility, but Seb nodded firmly.

"A pleasure to meet you," Mycroft said, now smiling through his teeth as Mum, Callum and I made to leave the room. I caught Sherlock's eye as I passed him, and his icy blue gaze seemed to freeze me where I stood.

"You'll be back," he said, looking directly at me. I quickly tore my gaze from his and scurried out of the room, feeling his eyes on me even after I'd left like the imprint of cold fingers on the back of my neck.

* * *

It was two weeks after the start of term before I heard from Sebastian again. I was curled up in bed, flipping through channels on the telly and finally settling on a sitcom I vaguely recognized but not concentrating fully on it. While Seb was studying at one of the most exclusive, respected institutions in the world, I was sprawled out in bed with nothing to do but watch bad soap operas. Instead of heading off to uni like the rest of my friends, I was taking a gap year—although it hadn't originally been my plan—and hoping to get a job. I'd applied at several shops in the summer, but I'd never heard back from any of them and was forced to accept that I would spend the next ten months unemployed and unhappy, bored out of my mind and wandering the house aimlessly.

I was just debating whether to go downstairs and get some ice cream to fully resign myself to my fate when the telephone rang shrilly. I groaned, throwing off the blankets and padding out of the bedroom to the table in the hall. Mum's golden retriever, Reggie, looked up sleepily as I passed him and whined softly.

"Hello?" I asked blearily after a minute of fumbling with the phone, reaching down to pet Reggie.

"Lia, I need your help," Sebastian said right away. His tone was smooth, but I sensed a hint of urgency running through it.

"What are you on about, Seb?" I asked. "Shouldn't you be asleep?"

"It's nearly noon," he replied, and with a jolt of embarrassment I realized I'd slept even longer than I'd thought. "Listen, can you make it here by one? Take my car and—"

"What the hell are you talking about?" I demanded. "I'm not driving all the way up to Cambridge."

"It's not as if you have anything else to do," my stepbrother retorted, and with no small amount of indignation I was forced to admit he was correct. "My dad and your mum'll be thrilled that you're visiting me, anyway. I'll repay the gas money."

"Hang on, why do you even need my help? How's Sherlo—"

"Meet me outside the dorm at one," he instructed. Before I could ask him anything else, he hung up.

Growling angrily, I went back to my room to get dressed and switch off the telly before going downstairs to write a note. Mum and I had moved from our small but cozy flat in Lambeth to Callum's posh house in Kensington when they'd gotten engaged. Callum was the head of a real estate company who sold overpriced houses to the rich and famous, and he'd certainly profited well. He had met Mum after he'd nearly run over her with his Mercedes one day, run out of the car to make sure she was all right, and apparently it had been "love at first sight." Everyone, including me, was happy to see her settling down again, especially since she'd been single for ages, but sometimes I missed our late-night chats on the couch, eating popcorn and watching a movie. Callum's house, spacious and modern though it was, had never really felt like home to me.

I grabbed Seb's car keys from a drawer, pausing only to scribble a note to Mum and Callum that read, _Gone to Cambridge to visit Seb. Don't wait up, _before heading out to the garage. I tried not to look at their wedding picture as I passed the fireplace, which was placed front and centre on the mantel: Callum nearly spilling out of his dark suit, his big, beefy frame almost enveloping Mum's slender but tall one. Sebastian and I stood uncomfortably on either side of them, me wearing a horrendous fuchsia dress and holding a bouquet of daisies. I hated how short I was—I took after my biological father in that aspect. Mum, as far as I remembered from my blurred memories, had always been at least a head taller than him. Not that I liked to think about Dad much.

Seb's Audi was waiting in the garage for me; it hadn't been driven since he'd gone to Cambridge, and I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw that the gas tank was full. I didn't have a car of my own, and it felt satisfying when it roared to life under me, speeding out onto the road with barely a nudge of my foot.

The streets of London were, as always, clogged and congested, but at least it wasn't raining, although the sky was an ominous shade of grey. Luckily the traffic thinned out once I got to the motorway, and my mind was left to wander, predictably turning to why exactly Sebastian wanted my help. He'd surely made friends by now, and the two of us weren't even really close to begin with unless it involved throwing good-natured insults at each other. Plus, he hated it when anyone but him drove his precious car. So why was he entrusting such a duty to me?

I still hadn't come up with any possible explanations by the time I pulled into Cambridge nearly two hours later. Students milled about on the grounds, none paying particularly close attention to me even though it was clear I didn't belong. I recognized Sebastian right away, leaning against a tree with a bored expression on his face, his brown hair held in place by, unsurprisingly, what looked like half a bottle of gel.

"Lia!" he greeted me, and I stifled a giggle at how pretentious he looked in his uniform. "Right on time. I'm shocked."

"It's not as if I had anything better to do," I drawled self-deprecatingly. "Now, what did you drag me out all the way out here for? If it's to buy you some more hairspray, I'm—"

"I think it's better if I show you," he said darkly, and led me inside the dorm building, waving me in past the security guard, and upstairs to his room. My curiosity was growing with each step, and by the time I stepped into his room I finally understood what he was on about.

Seb had always been messy, but his was an ordinary, teenage-boy sort of mess. The current state of his dorm room was beyond words. Rolled-up pieces of paper littered the floor, books were stacked on every available surface, and beakers of differently-coloured liquids had taken the place of his hair care products, some bubbling and fizzing. It looked like a mad scientist's laboratory, I thought. It was a wonder how the beds weren't covered with junk. I craned my neck to read the title of the nearest book: _An Illustrated Guide to Human Decomposition._

I stepped back immediately, shooting him an alarmed glance. "It gets worse," Seb said grimly. He tapped a fingernail against one of the glass beakers, and I hesitantly peered inside to see what looked like a bone frothing away inside.

"Is that…is that human?" I asked in a small voice.

Seb nodded. "Sherlock says he got it from the Biology department and is using it to do 'authorized' experiments. I don't believe a word of his bullshit."

"You have to tell someone," I insisted. "He's not just eccentric, he's _insane."_

Sebastian snorted. "Yeah, right, and have him gloat at me forever? I'm not giving him the satisfaction. I can't even bring a girl in here, let alone have a shag. The freak'll know exactly what happened and with which girl. He knows everything about everyone—you heard him when you were here before. Calls them 'deductions' or some shit like that. Anyway, I can't tell anyone because he'll find out. No, we need to get someone up here without me asking them."

I frowned. "And what will they do to Sherlock? Expel him?"

"I don't care whether he moves or I do," Seb shrugged. "The point is that I can't live like this for one more day. That's where you come in, Lia."

"Me?"

"Yeah. There's a wicked party at one of the other dorms tonight. If we get caught, I'll tell them that I just wanted to show my sister around campus and I had no idea that it was illegal. They won't buy that if I'm with anyone else. Sherlock will be curious enough about you that he'll follow us there. Once he does, we'll get him drunk, stoned, wasted—whatever works. When he's out of it, we'll call for help and someone will bring him back to his room and discover_—this." ´_He made a sweeping gesture around the room, disgust clear on his face.

"No way!" I yelped. "Seb, _you're _the one who sounds batshit insane now."

"Lia, you have to understand me," he whispered, his eyes suddenly wild. "Sherlock Holmes is a—is a _nightmare_. He doesn't sleep, just sits at the desk fiddling with the experiments and blowing things up. He doesn't even go to class. Says that he already understands the material. He just wanders the campus all day. Probably looking for other people to harass."

"Smokes too, does he?" I asked, sniffing the air. "I can smell the weed."

"Actually," said Seb without a hint of shame, "That's mine."

"Callum is going to _kill _you—"

"You'd want to get high, too, if you had to live with him," Sebastian argued. "He's probably creating Frankenstein's monster, a companion who will be the only one who can put up with him."

Seeing that there was no reasoning with him, I made my voice as gentle as possible. "If he's so brilliant, won't he realize right away that I'm here because you asked me to be?" I objected. "And surely he'll realize that you're trying to get him to, I don't know, take drugs?"

He crossed his arms. "Do you have a better plan?"

"Yes, I do, actually. It's not to do anything at all, because this isn't my problem. You're going to have to solve it on your own, Seb."

Now he was looking desperate. "Lia, _please. _Use it as the plot in one of your stories or something."

"The book that I'll never publish, according to you." I turned on one heel and made to leave the room, but Seb caught me by the arm.

"You know I didn't mean that," he said, and I fought to control my grin at his groveling. He really_ must_ be distressed if he was putting aside his pride to beg. "You're an amazing writer. Lia, I'll do anything you want if you help me just this one time. We're family. You won't even help your own stepbrother?"

Now my smirk widened. "Fine, Seb. You've convinced me. But, you know, I'm living at home and don't have a car…"

"You can borrow it anytime you want," he said rashly. "Hell, you can even say that it's yours. Is that good enough for you?"

I was silent for a long moment, enjoying his pain in an almost sadistic way. "Not quite," I answered slyly. "There's one more thing that I want—" But Seb was no longer listening to me: he had gone very still, like a mouse sensing a cat approach. "He's coming. Sit down." He shoved me onto the chair while I tried to look as natural as possible while simultaneously scowling at him. A moment later, the door creaked open and Sherlock stepped in, his eyes going straight to me. I expected him to look annoyed or even angry, but his expression remained cool and unsurprised.

"It's taken you longer than I expected to come back here," he said dispassionately, crossing the room and examining one of the beakers.

I could no longer restrain myself: "What are you talking about?" I asked crossly. "How did you know that I would be back here?"

Sherlock didn't even turn around as he replied, "You applied to Cambridge but weren't accepted. Now you are taking any chance you get to visit."

I rounded on Sebastian. "You told him, didn't you?"

Seb held his hands up in a pleading gesture. "I swear I didn't, Lia!" And somehow, I believed him. After all, it didn't take a huge stretch of the imagination to believe that a boy who could tell your entire life story after just a glance at you was able to tell which universities you had applied for.

"All—all right," I said, slightly shaken. "How did you know that?" He was correct: I had applied to Cambridge and Oxford, but my application had been rejected both times. By the time I got my rejection letters, it was too late to apply anywhere else, so I had decided to take a gap year.

"Oh, please," Sherlock scoffed. "Any fool could see your jealousy of Sebastian, and he never ceased to make thinly veiled insults about your academic inaptitude—or lack thereof. Tell me, what is your reason for visiting _this _time? Or did you just come all the way out here for a pleasant chat?"

I looked over at Sebastian, who offered, "I invited Lia to a party tonight. She's not exactly the wild type, but as you've obviously noticed she'll take any excuse she can get to visit."

"You're more than welcome to come along," I offered Sherlock, crossing my fingers and praying that he would take the bait. If it meant that I would get to claim Seb's Audi as my own, I was fully on board with any idea he had, despite my conscious telling me otherwise.

* * *

To no one's surprise, Sherlock declined the offer, but Sebastian insisted that we go the party anyway. That was how I found myself standing in the middle of a crowded bar packed in the midst of a hundred gyrating bodies all dancing (a term I used very loosely) to some sort of headache-inducing techno music while flashing strobe lights illuminated the room. The air was thick with smoke. Seb had disappeared as soon as we'd walked inside, and I had no desire to either dance or introduce myself to any of the men prowling the perimeters and looking for a good time. I was fairly certain that the majority of the people here didn't even attend Cambridge.

My head was throbbing horribly by the time I managed to fight my way out of the crowd and take a seat at the bar, searching for Sebastian amongst the sea of partygoers. "Ciggie?" the bartender asked me, spinning a pack around on the counter. The only part I could see of him was the orange glow at his mouth as he lit up.

"Um, no thanks. I don't smoke," I said to him. "Just a—just a Coke, please."

With a displeased grunt, the bartender slapped a glass down in front of me, a bit of the liquid spilling over the side. I raised it to my lips and took a hesitant sip, staring around the room so as not to make awkward eye contact.

Someone slid into the seat next to me, and I paid them no attention at first, but started when I caught a pair of bright blue eyes flashing in the reflection of the strobe lights, his pale skin standing out starkly with his dark coat. "Sherlock," I breathed. Bloody hell—so Seb _had _been right. "What are you doing here?"

"Following you, of course," he said dismissively. "There is another reason why you are at the university today of all days. It is the middle of the week and your obsession with this school is not so great that you would come at this time, or else you would have visited before, so you must have been summoned here. The question is _why?" _He stared at me with those piercing eyes, and I could sense his frustration at not being immediately able to guess the answer.

So this was why Seb had wanted me in on the plan rather than anyone else. My status as outsider would pique Sherlock's interest and get him to follow me to the party. As usual, I hadn't been thinking ahead.

I had been bait.

"God, Sherlock, stop overthinking things," I answered with a nervous laugh, seeing that he was waiting for an answer.

He wasn't amused. "And you should stop _under-thinking _things. Perhaps doing so would have gotten you into Cambridge."

"Well," I muttered, burning with annoyance but unable to think of a clever retort fast enough, "I'm not very intelligent."

"Clearly," Sherlock replied dismissively. To him, such a response was not deliberately insulting in the least—it was matter-of-fact. He truly did not think anyone was on the same intellectual level as him. He was right. "Now, lest this conversation become even more tedious than it already is—"

"Have you seen Sebastian?" I interrupted, not caring to have my self-esteem brought down another peg.

Sherlock nodded carelessly in the other direction, and I squinted through the haze to see Seb—or at least a boy who looked like him—entwined in a close embrace with a blonde leggy girl I had never seen before. I sighed and turned back to Sherlock, who had somehow obtained the package of cigarettes and was twirling one between his long fingers. The bartender offered him a lighter, and with barely a nod he flicked it open and lit up. "You _smoke?" _I asked in disbelief and more than a bit of disappointment, although I wasn't sure why.

"Occasionally," Sherlock replied, with no elaboration whatsoever.

"Since when?" I said, but Sherlock ignored me. He was looking now at my glass of Coke, and I pushed it over to him. "Tedious," he muttered again, raising the glass to his lips, and his eyes snapped up to face me. "You are not originally from here," he declared, and I blinked at him in shock. "You don't speak like someone born in Britain."

"Yeah," I said after a moment, deciding to humour him. "My mum is English, my dad is American. They fell in love when he was visiting London on a business trip and took her back to Florida where I was born a year later. They divorced when I was four—"

"Affair," Sherlock interrupted none too kindly.

I frowned. "How did you—"

"You're obviously estranged from your father, so something divisive must have occurred, the most likely being an affair. It was bound to occur; as you explained it, he often makes rash decisions like marrying a woman on a whim. Therefore he is very rich and was likely seeing multiple women at once." Sherlock sounded impatient, and I was sure my mouth was hanging open stupidly.

"Well, um, yes," I continued. "My father stayed in Florida and Mum moved me back to London, where I've lived ever since. Dad sends just enough for child support, but I haven't seen him in fourteen years and I doubt either of us particularly cares about the other. I took Mum's surname, Doyle, and that was that." I paused. What I didn't tell him, however, was that Dad had been married at the time he'd met Mum, and had a son who was several years older than me, so I had a half-brother I'd never met—in fact, I wasn't even certain what his name was. Dad's marriage had ended as soon as his first wife had found out he was cheating on her; that one had apparently been all over the papers, but Mum had been young and naïve at the time and hadn't believed the same thing could happen to her. In any case, knowing that your biological father was a serial adulterer didn't warm him to me any more.

Sherlock took another drag from the cigarette, the smoke curling up around his fingers. "Oh, this is _wonderful_," he muttered to himself, completely disregarding what I had just told him. He was sweating now, his eyes slightly unfocused and taking on a dreamlike quality. "Exactly the kind of stimulation I need."

I wasn't entirely sure about the effect of cigarettes on the brain, but I was fairly certain that it was supposed to relax someone, not "mentally stimulate" them or whatever the hell he was on about. I glanced down at his drink, and saw that there was a sprinkling of white powder on the bottom of the glass. "Sherlock," I began, snatching it away from him, noticing that the bartender had disappeared, "—Someone spiked your drink—"

But I never got to finish my sentence, as Sherlock went limp and slumped to the counter, what little colour there was left in his face draining out of it. I grabbed his shoulder and tried to shake him out of it, but he didn't move.

"Oh, God," I whispered in horror, and looking up, I met Sebastian's eyes across the bar, who had noticed what had happened and was moving toward us. "Oh, Jesus." I felt as if I was going to be sick. What the hell had we done?

* * *

For years afterward, I would remember the cold autumn air on my skin as we dragged Sherlock across campus, the leaves blowing up into our clothes, the full moon occasionally covered by racing clouds, and the distant whoops and shouts of the other students. We didn't speak, and my mind was working a mile a minute, trying to find a way to get out of this. Sherlock could barely walk, leaning heavily on us and tripping over his own feet. Occasionally he would mutter something under his breath that sounded like he was reciting the periodic table, or some other ridiculous mathematical equation. I had never been so grateful when the dorm finally came into view and we stepped inside the warm lobby, hauling Sherlock up the stairs and into his room, throwing him onto the bed.

Seb collapsed onto his own bed, burying his face in his hands. "I didn't know he would collapse," he muttered.

I stopped short, a horrible suspicion dawning on me. "What are you on about?"

"Put two and two together, Lia!" he snapped, although his voice was muffled. "I told the bartender to spike his drink. But he must have put too much in. I'm going to _kill _him—"

"Well, this turned out to be a brilliant plan, brother," I said as sarcastically as I could.

Sebastian muttered something that sounded like "Fuck off" without taking his hands away from his face. Very quietly, I went into the adjoining bathroom and doused a towel with cold water, wringing the excess liquid into the sink before rolling it up and walking back into the bedroom. Sherlock was moving around restlessly on the bed, his sweaty curls tangling on the pillow. I carefully placed the wet cloth on his forehead before withdrawing from the room, drawing my coat around me when I stepped outside into the cold night.

I silently crossed the parking lot and unlocked Sebastian's Audi, slipping into the driver's seat and staring numbly at the key dangling from the ignition. I could have driven back to London and made up some excuse about why I was late, but it was as if a force greater than myself was compelling me to stay. My breath was blowing out in little puffs into the air, but I didn't turn the heater on. I finally rested my head back against the seat, closing my eyes and falling into a dreamless sleep, but guilt and unease were colouring even that.


End file.
